“You could beat me yourself, if you truly wanted to,” he said. “You do not have to decide tonight. I understand that I have surprised you, and you Fereldens are always blushing about such matters.”
“It’s not that,” she said, as he pushed aside the blankets (wearing smallclothes, thank the Maker, although they left little enough to the imagination and she was going to stop staring now) and stretched out his legs, reaching for his toes. “I don’t want to make a scene.”
He paused mid-stretch and looked up at her, thoughtful. “If you throw me out of your tent kicking and screaming, I doubt anyone would think you had invited me. I would hardly go around insinuating otherwise. My proposition is one I offer out of a desire to be of assistance, not—”
“It’s not that,” she said again, looking at her knees, the small patch of skin between her stockings and her shorts, dancing around the words, unsure if she wanted to say—“He trusts me.”
“Your brother?”
She looked up and saw him watching her; she thought Aeden would say that the elf had tried to kill her, so she should hardly be trying to tell him the precious thoughts she kept about her relationship. But he looked like he might understand, and the thought was too precious not to be shared. “Alistair,” she said, her fingers tingling again at the name, her smile soft—not that she knew, missing the flash of pain in his eyes at her familiar expression. “He trusts me, when he looks at me, and I don’t want to betray it. And that includes having other men in my tent.”
“I will take full responsibility—”
“He looks at me like I’m a person,” she said suddenly, to the ground, the walls of her tent, her would-be paramour. “Not like I’m a scary forbidden Grey Warden or a freakish mage or an abomination waiting to happen—he trusts me not to suddenly sprout horns and a tail and started doing blood magic on everyone in the vicinity. It doesn’t—it’s like he doesn’t even consider the possibility when he looks at me, and no one—no one—has ever looked at me that way before.” She paused, then added truthfully, “I think sometimes he’s afraid I might turn him into a toad. But he’s never afraid of what I might turn into. And that…I don’t want to betray that.”
The slight chirp of crickets, muffled, passed through the tent, and then Zevran said, “So you would rather have him in all his awkward bumbling inexperience.”
Her lips twitched. “And mine.” And then she blushed and said, “Not that we’re—”
“You will,” he said, “if only because, I think, you look at him not as a templar or a Warden or a bastard prince, but a man with a nice smile and a silly laugh.” He stood, stooped, and kissed her on the forehead, sighing; she remained perfectly still, but he merely said, “It is a shame, and if you should change your mind…”
“Don’t come to my tent. I’ll come to yours,” she said, looking up at him, and he laughed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sarken
FICLET w. appropriate icon pt 2
Date: 2010-08-04 02:25 am (UTC)“It’s not that,” she said, as he pushed aside the blankets (wearing smallclothes, thank the Maker, although they left little enough to the imagination and she was going to stop staring now) and stretched out his legs, reaching for his toes. “I don’t want to make a scene.”
He paused mid-stretch and looked up at her, thoughtful. “If you throw me out of your tent kicking and screaming, I doubt anyone would think you had invited me. I would hardly go around insinuating otherwise. My proposition is one I offer out of a desire to be of assistance, not—”
“It’s not that,” she said again, looking at her knees, the small patch of skin between her stockings and her shorts, dancing around the words, unsure if she wanted to say—“He trusts me.”
“Your brother?”
She looked up and saw him watching her; she thought Aeden would say that the elf had tried to kill her, so she should hardly be trying to tell him the precious thoughts she kept about her relationship. But he looked like he might understand, and the thought was too precious not to be shared. “Alistair,” she said, her fingers tingling again at the name, her smile soft—not that she knew, missing the flash of pain in his eyes at her familiar expression. “He trusts me, when he looks at me, and I don’t want to betray it. And that includes having other men in my tent.”
“I will take full responsibility—”
“He looks at me like I’m a person,” she said suddenly, to the ground, the walls of her tent, her would-be paramour. “Not like I’m a scary forbidden Grey Warden or a freakish mage or an abomination waiting to happen—he trusts me not to suddenly sprout horns and a tail and started doing blood magic on everyone in the vicinity. It doesn’t—it’s like he doesn’t even consider the possibility when he looks at me, and no one—no one—has ever looked at me that way before.” She paused, then added truthfully, “I think sometimes he’s afraid I might turn him into a toad. But he’s never afraid of what I might turn into. And that…I don’t want to betray that.”
The slight chirp of crickets, muffled, passed through the tent, and then Zevran said, “So you would rather have him in all his awkward bumbling inexperience.”
Her lips twitched. “And mine.” And then she blushed and said, “Not that we’re—”
“You will,” he said, “if only because, I think, you look at him not as a templar or a Warden or a bastard prince, but a man with a nice smile and a silly laugh.” He stood, stooped, and kissed her on the forehead, sighing; she remained perfectly still, but he merely said, “It is a shame, and if you should change your mind…”
“Don’t come to my tent. I’ll come to yours,” she said, looking up at him, and he laughed.